


Matchmaker of Mars

by Edonohana



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 1930s Science Fiction Writer AU, Baking, Bigotry & Prejudice, Epistolary, F/F, Fiction within fiction, Pastiche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-28 04:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edonohana/pseuds/Edonohana
Summary: John W. Campbell accidentally matchmakes T'Pring and Uhura.





	Matchmaker of Mars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).

****

**Apartment # 9**

_But quick as the outlaw drew, Tex drew quicker. Before Poke had even cleared leather, a searing tongue of yellow flame spat from the mouth of Tex’s six-shooter. The acrid reek of gunsmoke wafted up as the outlaw clutched his chest, staggered, and fell dead in the dust._

_Tex spun his big iron in a steel-gray kaleidoscope of sudden death. Then he holstered it and turned his cool blue gaze to the setting sun. “Guess it’s 'bout time for me to be movin' on.”_

-30- 

Nyota Uhura swore aloud as she realized what she'd typed to indicate the end of the manuscript. That was what came of writing three articles in a row before turning to fiction. She supposed she should be grateful she hadn't concluded the yarn by having Tex sit Poke down and deliver a lecture on practical lexicography.

She rolled up the page, dipped a fine brush in her jar of white tempera paint, and dabbed it over the offending -30-. After a careful touch assured her that it was dry, she typed _The End,_ stacked the pages together, checked her list of pen names, wrote a cover letter signed “Cody North,” and slid it and the manuscript of “Showdown at Red Rock Saloon” into an envelope already addressed to the editor of _Thrilling Western._

If she sold two more stories and all three articles, she’d have her rent paid for the month. And then she could allow herself the pleasure of writing something closer to her heart, but harder to sell. 

She gave a regretful glance at the battered manuscript of “The Phonemes of Aldebaran,” which had just come back from _Weird Tales_. Now that was a story she’d be proud to stand behind. But editors didn’t seem to share that view, as it had now been returned by all but one of the possible markets. She needed to re-type it and send it to _Astounding_, along with a new cover letter from “Nathan Uhura.”

But first, she’d treat herself to a cup of tea and a fresh-baked…

An acrid reek crept into her awareness. The biscuits were burning! Uhura jumped up, rushed to her tiny kitchen, and yanked a tray of unidentifiable black lumps from the oven. Frantically, she fanned the smoke out the window with the pages of an unsalable early work, “She Crawled From Her Grave!” With any luck, she’d get it all out before her peculiarly sensitive neighbor complained—

Rap-rap-rap!

“Hello, T’Pring,” Uhura said with a sigh as she opened the front door.

“You have once again polluted my living space with a cloud of suspended carbon particles,” said T’Pring. 

“Yes, sorry,” Uhura replied. “I burned some biscuits.”

It fascinated her how her strange neighbor’s expression could manage to be simultaneously blank and disapproving. Maybe it was her elegantly upswept eyebrows. 

“Baking is simple chemistry,” said T’Pring. “It should be well within your capabilities. And if you cannot keep track of passing time, I suggest that you utilize a time-keeping device.”

Uhura was too busy trying to imagine T’Pring baking that she couldn’t even be annoyed that she was being scolded like a child. She could just see those delicate fingers measuring out baking powder, then pouring milk into an Erlenmeyer flask…

T’Pring thrust out her hand. Amazed, Uhura saw that she held an egg timer. “Here.”

“Oh…” Uhura wasn’t sure whether to be touched or insulted. “Thank you, T’Pring. But—”

T’Pring deposited the egg timer in Uhura’s hands. Their fingers brushed together. T’Pring’s were cool, her touch feather-light. 

“Use it,” her neighbor said, and departed.

Uhura watched her go. T'Pring moved so strangely, and so beautifully: measured, graceful, every footstep placed precisely. She appeared to float from step to step, as if she moved in a bubble of low gravity. Was she trained in some form of dance? Ballet, perhaps?

Uhura realized that she was staring at T'Pring's closed door and hastily shut her own. Enough of her odd neighbor. She deposited the egg timer beside the stove, made herself a cup of tea, and sat back down at her typewriter. She really ought to write something else that she was confident of selling, but she was so tired of cowboys and private eyes and ace pilots, all inhabiting worlds where she herself could never exist… 

_Makena Mwangi strode through the crowded Venusian marketplace. Her rich brown skin glistened with sweat under the smothering cloud-cover, and smaller droplets beaded the dense black curls of her hair. But despite her fearsome reputation, she had not come to duel or hunt or make any use of the atom-gun that rode at her hip. _

_No, the dreaded Captain Mwangi, terror of the space pirates and protector of the spaceways, had come in search of nothing more momentous than a midday meal. She was not looking for trouble. But nevertheless, it found her. _

_Her trouble came in the shape of a girl, or what she thought at first glance was a girl. She was slim, delicate, dark haired, lovely in every way—and with the upswept eyebrows which marked her as a Venusian. Not human at all. As she stepped toward the captain, moving with that strange alien grace which no Earth woman could equal, she stretched out her six-fingered hands. Some small metallic object glinted in her cupped palms._

_“A gift, Captain Mwangi,” she said, carefully articulating the words of Swahili, the standard dialect of Earthmen. Like all human languages, it did not come easily to the Venusians, but humans could not pronounce theirs at all. “I have a gift for you…”_

  


Dear Uhura,

“A Gift From Venus” is a terrific yarn. When I put it down, I felt like I’d been to Venus myself. I’ll take it if you’re willing to make a few changes. 

Number one is the "spider silk" spacesuit. Please either change this or specify that they're alien spiders—while spider silk is strong and can be waterproof, it is not airtight. DuPont recently synthesized two very exciting polymers, “neoprene” and “nylon,” which you might want to read up on if you’re not already familiar with them. I believe a combination of them might work for a spacesuit.

Number two: your protagonist. Women are not like men. They don't fight duels or command ships. As for blacks, it's not likely that they'll make it into space at all, except possibly as slaves if that institution makes a comeback. Your hero, as a character, is compelling—just change the name, gender, and physical descriptions. Scottish names are always good. How about Malcolm McCoy?

Number three, see the markups my assistant editor has made on your manuscript. If you change your hero to a man, some of his interactions with the alien girl will have sexual implications. We don't want that.

Number four, see my notes on blacks. Swahili makes no sense as a common tongue of the future. If you want something exotic and surprising, what about Finnish?

As for “The Phonemes of Aldebaran,” it’s well-written but I have to pass. _Astounding_ is a science fiction magazine and linguistics is not a science.

Sincerely, John W. Campbell, Jr.

  


Uhura seethed, her fingers twitching with the desire to rip up the letter. She wasn’t sure which was most infuriating, the remark about slavery, the remark about women, or the remark about linguistics. On the other hand, she needed the money. 

What was a reasonable price to accept for one’s dreams?

The egg timer rang, rescuing her from the impulse to decide immediately. She went into the kitchen and removed her popovers from the oven. Steam rose up, carrying a rich and delicious scent. Whatever T’Pring’s intent, the egg timer _was_ a useful gift. And if Uhura had ever needed popovers, she needed them now.  
****

**Apartment # 10**

Dear Pring,

I’m returning “The Great Work of the Chymists of Sh’Gai.” I enjoyed reading your yarn but it won’t work for _Astounding._

You have two lines of dialogue in the entire story, and they're "O Chymist, thou wast ever a sagacious and beauteous damosel," and "Behold, O Chymists of Sh'Gai! A new element!'" Readers nowadays expect more dialogue than that. I appreciate that your archaic language is correct-- you wouldn't believe how many stories I get with Godawful lingo like "Gadzooks! Let me speecheth forsoothly to thou--" but save it for stories that are set in older times. Yours is set in the future, when people will speak even more plainly than they do now. 

Also, I noticed that the majority of your chemists appear to be female. Was your intent to speculate that in the future, female scientists will be less rare? It’s possible, but no amount of time passing could change the nature of the sexes to create as many as you depict. A single female chemist would be sufficient to make the point that in the future, they are not unknown.

Your main character is named Su (tone 3) lu (tone 1) [click] [glottal stop] RAH (tone 3) click. This makes every line where she's named border on unreadable. Just call her Sulurah. 

You describe her as an extremely beautiful black woman who is also a genius chemist. Blacks are not geniuses, and women are not genius chemists. As for beauty, have you ever actually seen a female scientist? 

Your description of the discovery and properties of the new element was excellent. Would you be interested in rewriting that part in plain English as a speculative essay? I'm always looking for good chemistry articles and your understanding of it is first rate. 

Sincerely, John W. Campbell, Jr.

  


T’Pring was too dignified to seethe. Nevertheless, a sensation like water on the verge of boiling ran beneath her skin as she read the letter. How dare he insult the beautiful black genius chymist Su (tone 3) lu (tone 1) [click] [glottal stop] RAH (tone 3) click! How dare he disparage the ability of women to be chemists! And in the same breath as praising her own understanding of chemistry, too. It was so illogical.

Then, re-reading her address, she realized that he had made the exact same mistake that every other editor did, and written her name as T. Pring rather than T’Pring. He probably thought she was a man named Timmy or Tommy or Tubal. That realization made her even angrier.

Knock-knock!

How odd. No one ever knocked at her door. But perhaps someone had failed to read the number on her door correctly.

T’Pring opened the door, and was startled to behold her neighbor Uhura, holding a covered tray. Steam wafted out from under the cloth, bearing an aroma that contained no trace of carbon, but only that of caramelized sugar and toasted dough.

“I brought you some popovers,” Uhura said. Her huge dark eyes glanced downward, giving T’Pring an excellent view of her unusually long eyelashes. “I used the egg timer to bake them. They’re not burned.”

“I can smell that they’re not,” T’Pring said, taking the tray. Did people here, upon accepting a gift of food, offer to share it? Or not? It was not an occasion which had happened before. But there seemed to be a lot of the baked items and Uhura was still standing in the doorway, so T’Pring said, “Come in. Eat them with me.”

Uhura smiled, making T’Pring feel as if she’d stepped into the sunshine. “Thank you.”

It felt very odd to have another person in her home. That too had not happened before. Uhura looked around curiously, then caught T’Pring watching her and switched her gaze to the popover tray. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

“Curiosity is a virtue,” replied T’Pring. She did not add that it felt flattering to see Uhura examine her home with such interest. “Please. Look as much as you wish.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” said Uhura, as she walked around the small apartment. “But it’s true. Without curiosity, no one would ever learn a new language.”

“Or make new scientific discoveries.”

“Or write stories.” Uhura had spotted her typewriter. “Do you write fiction? Nonfiction? Or is that for secretarial work?”

T’Pring somewhat regretted inviting her curiosity. She spoke slowly as she set out the popovers and put on a tea kettle. “Textbooks. Articles. I’m a chemist, so primarily on that subject. Also… I’m an aspiring writer of fiction.”

“I write fiction too! What sort do you write?”

“Archaic and unsalable stories, evidently.” As they said here (or, at least, as a handbook on colloquial speech wrote that people said here), in for a penny, in for a pound. She waved Uhura into a chair, then handed her the letter from John W. Campbell, Jr.

Uhura read it over as she absently ate a popover. T’Pring consumed one slowly, with enjoyment derived as much from the indignant expressions on Uhura’s face as the flavor of the bread.

Uhura put down the letter and took a final, angry bite of popover. “Oh, you won’t believe this… Wait here!”

She jumped up and ran out. A minute later, she returned with a letter, which she thrust at T’Pring. “Read this!”

T’Pring read it. Though it was not addressed to her, it gave her the same feeling she’d had when she read hers. She had to admit it. She was seething like her own tea kettle.

“The amount of melanin in the skin has no relationship to intelligence,” T’Pring said. “Nor to the likelihood of venturing into space.”

“Don’t I know it,” Uhura sighed. 

“Also, linguistics is the most rigorous of the social sciences.”

Uhura smiled and sipped her tea. “This is nice. What is it?”

“An herb from my country. You would not be able to pronounce it.”

“Oh? Try me.”

T’Pring humored her. To her surprise, when Uhura tried to repeat it, she didn’t mangle it _too_ badly.

“What language is that? What _is _ your country?”

“You would not be able to…” T’Pring broke off and told her the names, adding, “The country doesn’t exist anymore. It was broken up and absorbed by larger, more powerful regions. My people were no longer welcome, and we fled to America. I come from an aristocratic family, though we lost our money in the war. I was trained to move, to speak, to write, even to read properly, as we saw it. But I fell under the spell of... improper stories." 

"Stories of aliens? Spacecraft? The stars?"

"Yes. I have been trying to write more informally, like Americans do, but it does not come easily.”

As if telepathically linked, they both looked down at the letters. 

“Uhura, will you make your heroine less like you?” T’Pring asked.

Her sensual lips twisted unhappily. “I haven’t decided. I don’t want to. But I need the money.”

“Mr. Campbell is looking for scientific articles,” T’Pring said. “And he seems very interested in nylon and neoprene. If you wished to write an article on them, I could tell you everything you need to know. They are, indeed, most intriguing polymers.”

Uhura’s smile once again made T’Pring feel warm inside. “Oh, thank you, T’Pring! I’d love that. And I’d rather keep the story the way I wrote it, even if I can’t sell it. But can I help you with anything?”

“Yes,” said T’Pring. “You can help me write less archaically. And with more dialogue.”

"Of course!" Uhura laid her hand over T'Pring's, making her feel even warmer. A silence stretched out, one which felt fraught with possibilities that T'Pring could not name, and perhaps could not pronounce even if she did know their names. But whether she could speak of them or not, she knew that she wanted to explore them.

"We both work at home," said T'Pring at last. "And we are neighbors as well. I believe that this will be a very convenient arrangement."

"Convenient," said Uhura, and her smile was distinctly mischievous. "I suppose that's one word for it."

  
****

**Apartment # 20 (shared)**

Dear Mr. Campbell,

We have started our own magazine, _Worlds of Wonder_ (enclosed). We suspect that it will not be entirely to your taste, but we hope it will express our appreciation to you for bringing us together. 

Sincerely, 

T’Pring & Nyota (pen name “Nathan”) Uhura, eds. _Worlds of Wonder_

PS. We're both women. 

PPS. I (T’Pring) am named T’Pring. Not T. Pring. It is a traditional name from my country, whose own name you could not pronounce. 

PPPS. I (Uhura) am black. If we ever get to the stars, you’ll see me there.


End file.
